


The Puzzle of It

by Yeomanrand



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animal Abuse, M/M, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, POV: Sherlock Holmes, Post The Great Game, Pre-Slash, Present Tense, Psychopathology & Sociopathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/pseuds/Yeomanrand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation between John and Sherlock leads to a new appreciation of the facts. (a/n The animal abuse is mentioned in passing and is all in the past)</p><p>Teaser: <i>A sharp glance in John's direction, hands dropping back to the arms of his chair, but there's no approbation in John's gaze this time, no disappointment. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Puzzle of It

"Donovan's not wrong, you know."

John shrugs, and the maddening thing is he's not feigning unconcern.

"She is, and she isn't," he says, in that slow thoughtful tone he only ever uses with Sherlock. "She's right that you get off on the crime scene, but she's wrong about what gets you off."

"Do tell," he answers, careful to make it a statement, boredom in every note of the words, every line of his body because he _cannot_ let John know he's hit a nerve. Roused Sherlock's curiosity, again. Seen something Sherlock thought at least a little buried.

Or maybe it's that no one looks anymore.

John cocks his head and purses his lips, slightly, meeting Sherlock's eyes for the moment he's allowed before Sherlock looks away, studies his skull on the mantle.

"It's not about the bodies, Sherlock. You don't care about them except for the pieces they bring to the puzzle. Dead things don't get you off, or Molly'd have her hands full dealing with you. More than she does."

True enough so far; the bone is starting to flake on the scalp of his skull, probably from Mrs. Hudson's carelessness when she takes it. He gives John a small nod, knowing he'll take it for acquiescence, though John's already continuing without reassurance.

"The dead can tell you about the living, but not about how they were when they were alive. You can look at that woman and know she's probably in the media from the color of her clothes, and know that her marriage was unhappy and that she cheated -- but you can't tell a thing about how any of those facts came about; once she's dead, the reasons are gone."

Sherlock brings his hands up, index fingers resting against his lips, and presses his palms together hard as he can; he doesn't know if he wants to get up and pace or leap for John, stop him speaking and if it's the latter he doesn't know _why_.

He _hates_ not knowing why, has no control over what he doesn't understand.

"It's why you stopped taking animals apart, after a while, not because Mycroft got angry or Mummy was upset, or whatever polite fiction you tell yourself. You learned what you could of the physical facts of their insides, rummaged around looking for 'loyalty' or 'timidity' or some other trait that caught your eye. And whatever you were looking for simply wasn't there anymore, when the animal stopped living. So you got bored with killing, because there weren't any answers to be found by it."

A sharp glance in John's direction, hands dropping back to the arms of his chair, but there's no approbation in John's gaze this time, no disappointment. Quiet, calm, and a faint quirk of the lips when he realizes Sherlock's looking at him again.

"A bit on the mark?"

Sherlock shrugs, and then he is on his feet, pacing to the window and back, and John doesn't flinch, doesn't move from where he's leaning over the back of the chair -- _his_ chair, and Sherlock's still not sure when _that_ happened -- blue eyes tracking Sherlock's every movement.

"More than a bit, then," he says, but Sherlock's not really listening, trying instead to figure out when John had gotten so clever. _How_ is self-evident; he's been living with Sherlock for nearly a year, now, so it's only natural he's picked up a few things. Sherlock isn't worried, of course, John doesn't pose a threat and is sufficiently, inexplicably _loyal_ enough not to mention any of what he's sussed out to anyone else.

So why, then, has his own heartrate increased? Why give in to the nervous urge to pace, why the tightening of his lips, why the urge to lay hands on John and --

 _Oh._

He comes to a full stop at the window; shutting down everything external to examine this new insight. It's a rather different meaning than he's used to attaching to _getting inside_ someone else. Does he want to pursue -- a hot startling flash of _want_ through his body, of _yes_ , of _this_ and it's another puzzle, certainly, because John's not wrong about what really gets under his skin.

 _And_ John, but then John might actually be puzzle enough for a lifetime.

He refocuses on Baker Street below him, hears a taxi go by before John says his name, quietly; but he's said it at least twice before and there will be a decidedly military snap to his voice if he has to say it again. Sherlock watches the people go by below, arm-in-arm, and still can't imagine himself among them.

"It won't be what you expect," he says, finally turning his head to look at John. " _I_ won't be."

John's lips quirk up into a smile and he shakes his head just a bit.

"That's the puzzle of it all, Sherlock, isn't it? And it's why you won't...well, you won't. You _could_ , and believe me I'll always be aware of the possibility. But you won't."

"You're so certain?" he asks, stepping over to the front of John's chair, keeping its leather body between them even as he sets his hands to the outsides of John's, fingers not quite touching, and leans in.

"Enough," John says, meeting his gaze.

Sherlock doesn't look away. He thinks maybe he never will again.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd; concrit welcome.


End file.
